Snow Angels
by GwenStacy
Summary: Time is the medicine an aching heart must take. Loosely based on ‘The Lovely Bones’. Rory. Lorelai. Luke. Everyone.
1. Chapter 1

**Snow Angels**

**Author **GwenStacy (in another life—rainingyesterday)

**Disclaimer** Nothing on Gilmore Girls and nothing on The Lovely Bones.

**Rating **PG-13 (_language, sexual situations_)

**Summary **Time is the medicine an aching heart must take. Loosely based on 'The Lovely Bones'.

**Notes **In short this is a chapter story based on 'The Lovely Bones' by Alice Sebold. Rory is in place of Susie and basic ideas are taken from the book, but not much else plot-wise. This works out great because if you've never read the book, it really won't matter in the end. The story will have no solid romantic pairings except for Luke/Lorelai. It make have a slight Lit biased, but the fact that Rory is six feet under and her other romantic partners will be portrayed as true as possible, really makes the Lit thing not so evident. If anything it will have more Jess that Lit.

I have basically every chapter roughly planned out and it's a pretty long story. It will take a while to finish and will be slowly paced drama. Nothing that screams out drama in blinking lights.

I hope you will stick with me for the ride.

-Mira

* * *

_When I was six, my mother and I stood in the middle of Stars Hollow gazing proudly at our newly created snow angels named Sonny and Cher. My smile waned as I watched the white flurries falling from the clouds already start to fill up the imprints. I sadly asked my mother if they'd be there the next day. She hugged me tight and in a voice that urged me to also be caught up in the enchantment, said, "It doesn't matter. They're perfect now. It's always perfect when it snows."_

**Chapter One**

My name was Lorelai, after my mother; last name Gilmore. I was twenty-five when I was murdered September 23, 2009. It happened in New York where people die every day, but no one notices until the pungent odor of rotting flesh drifts into the hallways of their studio apartments. Either that or it's the socialite caught up in the glamour and she overdoses in the bathroom. The next day her face is on the cover of every magazine and newspaper, calling the death a tragedy, a light of youth that went out too soon.

My mother, Lorelai, warned me about the nameless deaths before I left to pursue to a new job at a small political magazine that was a close affiliate with the internet zine' that I worked for on the Obama trail. She was joking of course. Worried, but joking. She promised she'd never forget about me even if I became a hermit New Yorker that growled at tourists. She was the first one to hear about my death.

I was stupid, I know, to be walking home in the seedier streets in the late evening with no escort. I was too broke from buying some new Jimmy Choo's that afternoon (brown velvet pumps that I had been drooling over for the past month) to call a cab, and I still hadn't gotten the hang of the subway system. I always missed my stops. It felt like a good idea just to walk the eleven blocks back to my apartment in West Manhattan. Goodness sakes, I didn't live in Harlem or anything thanks to the grandparents.

Then it happened.

* * *

I can vividly remember the feeling of having the metallic fingertips of a gun pressed into the back of my skull. I remember my little gasp of air, and the frightening uncertainty of whether it would be my last. The sounds of the city had been all but muted as the man without a face or name gruffly told me to drop my purse. I did as I was told, and as he bent to retrieve it I made a mad dash to the 24-hour neighborhood grocery that seemed like safe haven.

I never made it. A shot rang out, once, twice, and my body reeled to the ground from impact. There were shouts and a few screams from the awakened citizens, but by the time they reached me, my shooter was gone and my blood had already formed a shiny, dark blanket around my body, and my being, me; I was already peeling myself away from the fleshy mess.

As sirens wailed, and onlookers shuddered, shaking their heads at another thoughtless crime, I was shrieking up into the sky. When you so quickly and senselessly die, you don't really have the peacefulness of being ready to die or getting to say goodbye. Instead, you leave without looking back.

* * *

My heaven is full of books. And coffee. Heaven is really what you want it to be. Where you are content to spend forever. As I have barely begun to realize now, forever is a very long time.

I sleep in a gazebo that's in the middle of a town quite like Stars Hollow. My white structure is my home, because the heaven copy of the Crap Shack was too hard to stay in. It wasn't right. As much as I loved the place, there was an emptiness to it that could not be filled as it was on Earth. It lacked the warmth of my mother's laughter, the sound of Luke's clinking tools, the screeches of Babette and the music of Morey from next door. It was without the memories. It was too much of Heaven when all I wanted was Earth.

The rest of the town was alright. My heaven of course, so it had the basics of my real home. The diner, the dance hall, the bridge and lake, the bookstore, Lane's House, Gypsy's, and the school. The problem with the town, just like the Crap Shack, was that Lane did not live in the antique store and Luke didn't live over the diner. It was a mirror version of Stars Hollow; congruent, but glass, breakable. What made it my place of eternity were the little things: no gossip and no Taylor. The good and bad sort of even out.

From 'Stars Hollow' a subway (like the one I never had the chance to master in New York) took me to a small, personal college campus decorated in Harvard memorabilia. I don't know why I like the Harvard stuff better than Yale. It makes me feel like a sellout, but I guess it is because subconsciously I wondered what my life would have been like if I had chosen Harvard.

I work in a newsroom where we print out the latest things to happen. There's not much to report except, 'Shooting Star Spotted, Rachel Dances With Light' or 'Janis Joplin Wanders into Our Heaven'. I enjoy immensely though the feeling of getting work accomplished.

Another ride on the subway will take me to a 24-hour cinema playing classic movie after classic movie. Lately, Duck Soup has been re-playing a lot. I think it has to do with the fact that's the last movie I saw with my mom. I still laugh, but it's not the same.

Usually at the end of my timeless day, before I begin to watch, one more ride transports me to the largest library I've ever been to. I stay there and read and read and read. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, Cider House Rules by John Irving, Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, Mr. Peter's Connections by Arthur Miller. Any book my heart lusts it shows up on the shelves. Even books whose covers' never had a chance to be printed on Earth. The binds of paper are in various stages of condition. Old, dried, yellow highlighter lines someone's favorite passages, and familiar neat writing is played on the margins. When I am in there, I really begin to believe—this is heaven.

But I always leave. I always go back to my gazebo and stare down to the living bodies.

I asked whether it's ok to miss people when you're in heaven. Steven, the diner owner, says it's better when you miss them. He doesn't like the meaning of forever.

There are people unlike Steve and I. They forget everything about Earth and the people in it. Instead they live in perfect bliss like the cherubs in the Renaissance paintings. It really is beautiful for them, but I just don't know if I'm ready to let go. There were so many things to settle. In my gazebo there is a corkboard with all my pro-con lists. I make one for almost any decision. I obviously have a lot of time.

* * *

After the initial killing of a person has taken place, some people sort of say goodbye to loved ones. They try to show themselves in spirit form, grasping at the edges of the life that fleets from them, just to give some kind of message or comfort. For humans, it's when a sudden cold chill passes through your body electrifying your nerves so goosebumps become fixtures on your skin. Or when the little hairs on the back of your neck are standing on end as if your lover has breathed behind you before they kiss your neck.

Sometimes even, in a few cases, humans can see the deceased.

An old man reading late, and he turns to the door out of habit. There is his beautiful wife Liza. He smiles. She smiles. He beckons her to bed, and she comes. Wrinkled hands knot into wrinkled hands and…the lights still on, the books still on page 134, but Liza is gone. He can still smell her perfume. Lilacs.

A father sits on a swing in a park watching all the little children. A laugh rises above the rest. His heart jumps as he spots William pumping his four-year-old legs. He jumps up to go catch him and give him a big hug and tell him, 'Will, Daddy's going to be here for you all the time. I promise.' By the time he reaches the grass where his son just past by, William is gone. He can still hear his laugh ringing in his ears. He was laughing when the crash happened too.

A few months after I got off the campaign trail and moved to New York, I called my mom to tell her I was going to take a trip. She asked where. My answer was a bit rambling, but I finally choked out the word 'Philadelphia'. My mom was quiet on the other line for a moment before saying that it was about time.

"You owe him an apology."

"I know."

The trip went well. He seemed happy enough to see me. No resentment, or hard feelings etched on his face. It was almost too easy: coffee, bookstore, a movie at the last minute that we senselessly mocked afterwards. It was nice.

We walked back to his store in a thin silence, and he walked me to my car. I told him what a great time I had had and if he was ever in New York, he knew whom to call. I thought everything bad had disappeared between us, but before I got in and drove away, his hand caught my arm and I looked up surprised.

"Don't…don't come back. I can't handle this. Sorry Rory."

Pain seemed to flow from every pore and I felt horrible for hurting him again. I nodded once and scrambled in. Embarrassment and shame washed over me.

I hurt him again.

So that evening when I was shot I was as surprised as he was when I touched his cheek with the cup of my hand and he instinctively turned into it. It was brief and dreamlike, but it happened. Jess later called Luke whom he kept regular correspondence with.

"I think I saw Rory tonight."

"You think," asked Luke.

"It was for a split second where I saw her and she touched me, and then…"

"Then…"

Jess dragged his hand down his face, "she disappeared."

"Jess…" Luke started.

"I'm not crazy," he protested. He's not. Jess grew up to be the most levelheaded person I knew. "I just…I'm not pining either. She was just so real."

Luke paused inside his diner, alone, closing up. He idly moved a saltshaker between his hands and before he could mutter anything into the phone, Lorelai walked in shaking. "Hey, uh, Jess, I have to go."

"Mh," was the answer that Jess gave back and he hung up. For the rest of the night he would think of me and wonder if he was finally going over the edge. Even with the job, the friends, the path, he still felt as if he took one misstep it would all disappear. It's ironic that the time I knew Jess the best was when I was already dead and gone.

He fell asleep near a cup of coffee and Jack Kerouac. They tried to keep him warm, as did I.

Back at the diner in Stars Hollow, my mother had ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate pie. Her usually young and energetic features had slumped to show her age and she her eyes kept flittering about like a rabbit during a storm. She kept lacing and unlacing her fingers together in a nervous habit.

"Luke," she said. It had to be mother's intuition. "Something bad happened to Rory. I know it."

Luke looked at her sharply, worried that maybe Jess did see Rory and that something happened. Of course he would never allow that worry to cross over to his wife. "I'm sure it's just all those Swedish Fish you inhaled yesterday. Rory is fine."

"Do you say so?"

"I say so." With that, my heart reached towards Luke because he is wrong this time. Something bad did happen to me and later he would believe the pain it causes my mom was his fault.

* * *

At 1:38 a.m. my mom received the call that would send the metaphoric dominoes of her life falling to the ground. As the police officer gave her the news, she quieted down from her grumpy woken up self to mess of pain. She didn't cry for a long time after she hung up the phone. In fact she didn't move. She didn't breathe. I think she was trying die too for a moment--when sanity escaped her--as the life of her little girl had. I wanted to soothe her; tell her I was all right and things were nice up with Jesus just like Mama Kim had said. (I'm glad I never saw her Hell.)

I imagine that I stood at the foot of her bed urging her to _see_ me as Jess had a few hours before. I urged myself to touch her, but it was if I was on one of those fair rides that spins you round and round on its side and gravity keeps you pressed to the metal seat.

It ended up that I didn't even have to comfort her. Luke groggily woke up, and inquired with a anxious _What's wrong? _

It woke her up from whatever daze she had fallen into and she turned her face to his with her lips trembling. Luke, as much as he wanted to immediately know, didn't understand what was making the love of his life hurt so much. Whatever it was, it made his heart constrict and adrenaline to flow faster in his veins. He could help her, save her, stop the foe that troubles her so.

"Rory…" she gasped, but was cut off by an explosion of saliva and tears.

Luke's eyes widened. He wasn't so sure he could save her from this, and truthfully, neither was I. "Lorelai? What happened? Did something happen to Rory?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"She—oh God! Oh my God. She's dead. Oh my—she's dead. She's gone. Rory! My Rory! No! She's not—dead. She's n—she's—oh my God."

The world began to spin the other way. Blue became yellow. Red became purple. Black became white. Instead of round, the Earth was flat. Paris Hilton was the Virgin Mary, and I was dead.

He felt himself give way a little and then without warning he remembered his promise, _Rory is fine. Rory is fine. Is fine. FineFineFINE. _I am not fine. Not really.

He began to cry.

* * *

Good? No good? Continue?

Review and if you have any pressing questions feel free to PM me.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Snow Angels**

**Author **GwenStacy (in another life—rainingyesterday)

**Disclaimer** Nothing on Gilmore Girls and nothing on The Lovely Bones.

**Rating **PG-13 (_language, sexual situations_)

**Summary **Time is the medicine an aching heart must take. Loosely based on 'The Lovely Bones'. Rory. Lorelai. Luke. Everyone.

**Playlist **You Are the Moon – the Hush Sound

**Notes **Thank you reviewers.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Blue is my favorite color. I think it'd be obvious why. My mom's eyes, like mine, are a crystalline blue that you can't help but love. We'd always put our baby blues to the test against Luke. He'd melt into a puddle. Blue is one of my earliest memories. Eyes gazing adoringly at me as a baby swathed in a blanket Mom had knitted herself during doctor's appointments. She'd talk and talk and sometimes attempt to sing, but all I understood were the glinting sapphires that told me I was loved. I was entranced as my father and Luke and other men had been.

Blue was the color of the sky the next day, a cloudy, listless blue that is the paint of the fall to winter sky. It was the expanse of space that Mom couldn't stop staring at, her 'glinting' eyes flat and dull, and her body in a robe lay on the bed. She shifted only when a bird squawked, scaring her. Then she'd cry. She didn't exactly know what else to do. She wasn't ready to go down to New York to take care of—well—me.

Downstairs, Luke was just as clueless. He had gone down to the dinner and put up the 'Gone Fishing' sign up even if he had no intention to cast a line in the water and kill a living animal during this time. It hurt him to know I was not alive no longer, but it just hadn't hit him in the right spot. (The tears shed the night before _were _for me, but he was afraid that was the last of them.) He was ashamed that what wounded him worse was seeing my mother so miserable.

I couldn't blame him. I know he loved me and I loved him as a child loves a father. I just wish I could have told him that when I was there.

"We all have regrets," said Steve one time, drinking a beer with me under the gazebo's top.

I looked over to my lists, meticulous and full of false pretences. "I want to erase mine."

"We all want to do that too."

* * *

Late afternoon, was when my mom finally released herself from the sadness weaved binds of her bed. She ate little, an apple that was thrust at her by Luke who wouldn't let her starve. She ate it, but slowly, only eating the juicy flesh, and picking off the red skin with her fingers. She flicked the crimson pieces on a napkin and played with them as if they were pencil shavings. It was so quiet.

They drove in the truck. Music flowed softly through the speakers, just loud enough to encase the two in their own worlds. My mother in death and Luke in the brink of hope. He always was optimistic. Okay, negatively optimistic. Can those even coincide? Just another thing you wonder in heaven.

They reached New York deep into the night, got a hotel room, single bed, and immediately fell onto it hoping that sleep become them. My mom faced the window opposite Luke. He watched her nervously. It had been a whole day, and she still hadn't uttered a word.

It had never happened before.

He climbed into the covers and encased her frame in his larger one. Pressing his heart to her back, he pumped whatever internal strength he had into her body. It was futile. He wasn't some magic guru type thing that could lift someone's spirits with a few 'Ohm's.

Luke sighed, and just near her ear whispered, "I love you."

He didn't get an answer back.

* * *

It was a dare, that day way back when I was twelve, for my mother to go the whole day without talking. She laughed and gloated at Luke that she could last a whole week. He said wouldn't even bet on two hours. I agreed.

She looked at us both in incredulity. "What!?"

"I bet on all your Def Leppard t-shirts that you won't make it," I smirked.

My mother gasped, "My own child! Betrayed! Oh, how I am betrayed! Luke, what did you put in her coffee?"

"Common sense," he chuckled.

"Poison!" she cried out.

My face lit up, "Oh, all those t-shirts too!"

My mother crumpled. She agreed and we went about our way. It was her day off, so we headed over to Hartford to the mall. She had stuck to her bet in the time we were in the car, even if I did put on Mozart right when CCR started 'Fortunate Son'. She loved singing the chorus out as loud as she could. _She _wasn't no rich, prick, Senator's kid.

In the mall we had to pass all those people standing out side their venues with free samples of this or that. My mom always got a kick out of harassing them. But, no; we passed on without so much as small prank.

I could tell she was down. Her mouth was sagging and she looked half asleep. Frankly, not talking was boring her. I tried to make up the lost conversation for the both of us, but I ended talking about DNA and RNA instead. I just babbled on and on about how wondrous the human body was if those small pieces of matter could help decided everything about us. I think my mom was ready poke an eye out with a hanger.

Ok, so she made the movement with the hanger of what she was thinking of doing, but I was too much on roll. I didn't know that in my coming teenage years I was supposed to talk about boys and hair. I was still in love with Holden Caulfield for goodness sakes! I was convinced he was real, and I would find him wandering New York and we'd run away or something like that. I thought he was one cool kid, while every other girl was still ripping her hair out over…that guy…what was his name?

We grew weary of the shops and smelly people and the total silence after my bust of tête-à-tête, and left the mall into the enclosure that was our car. The hush was stifling.

In Stars Hollow, my mom parked outside of Luke's. She paused before turning to me and whispering, "You win."

"What?" I asked pretending I hadn't heard her.

"You and Luke win," she yelled. "Happy? You get my favorite t-shirts, and I am stuck having to walk shamefully into that place--but not silent! Oh no! I am through with this whole not talking nonsense. Really? How do, like, monks do it?" We entered the establishment as she kept going, "Don't they feel the need to praise Buddha or God or whatever once and while. Maybe a 'yippee! We're monks!' every third Sunday of the month? Come on! What if they needed to go to the bathroom, but they forgot where it was and had to ask, but he couldn't because he's a monk. He'd have to pee in his robe! Do they have underwear? Ha, ha. If they do I bet it's wooly underwear. Ugh! That'd be so scratchy, and if he peed in those it would soak up everything! That's disgusting. He probably doesn't even have a second pair of--"

"I see we didn't last," Luke interrupted.

I grinned up at him. "Nope."

"As I was _saying_," she huffed, "No other pair! Because they are monks, and they probably make their wooly underwear themselves, and it takes a long while, and they don't ever stop to think that maybe one day I'll forget where the bathroom is and I can't ask anyone, because I'm a monk! Only these are European monks. Asian monks must have a totally different type of undergarment. Do you think they would have trained silk worms to make their…"

* * *

It was over with, the questions, the double-checking, the…identification of the deceased. Luke had done it. He walked into the chrome and white room and looked into a cold metal drawer saying yes that is Lorelai Gilmore when he saw my pale face, and the slightly bloated features of my body. He came out back and whispered that he thought he was going to be sick. A worker pointed him to the restroom.

His body held the toilet seat, his grip white, and he sputtered. Gagging again, he threw up. Luke flushed it, and lumbered out of the stall. He rinsed his mouth, and then his face. He looked at himself in the mirror, and saw that it was a deathly colored version of himself. Oh, great choice of words.

He found my mother waiting in the front of police station with a pack of cigarettes. His eyes flittered between the white box and my mother's pensive face.

"I haven't smoked since I was fifteen. I didn't even like it then."

"It's bad for you."

"It kills you, right? After a while. Takes time and effort."

Luke didn't say anything else. He didn't know this woman.

My mother brought a cigarette to lips; her fingertips still a virginal bright pink, yet to be tainted yellow by nicotine. She pulled a lighter out of her back pocket, and after a few attempts, lit it. Inhaling too much smoke, she coughed, and I coughed in my gazebo. I could see the wispy traces climbing up my walls. She breathed in again, this time holding it in the back of her throat, and tasting it. Like Audrey Hepburn, she let it curl out of her mouth, pretending to Holly. "Let's go."

"Throw it away," he told her pointing at her mouth.

"No," she said harshly, "I want this."

"We don't have a smoking room."

"I guess I just won't smoke in the room."

Luke looked so defeated; I wanted to kiss his cheek and give him some tea. I didn't like this mother either. "Why are you doing this?"

"I saw pictures in the station. Of someone's black lungs. They died."

_Don't die_, I whispered. _Don't want to die. _

* * *

Sookie, my mother's best friend and friend of mine, woke up that morning of September 25 happy and carefree as she usually did in the mornings. She was a very joyful person. She strolled into her kitchen ready to create an artful breakfast for Davie, Martha, and Jackson. It was what she did. Sookie, the chef, created art out of food. She sighed inwardly. Sookie, the mom, made something edible for two picky children to eat.

The red blinking light of her phone's answering machine was glaring at her to play the messages. She hadn't checked them since…well, a long while. Sookie shrugged and pressed play hoping the automated voice wasn't too loud.

"Sookie, yea, hey, it's Luke. We're getting back in from New York tomorrow. I'm not sure if Lorelai…if Lorelai will be well enough to go back to work tomorrow. You see, uh, God…Sookie, Rory is…Rory passed away. She was shot twice in the back. One of her lungs was pierced, and she bled…"

Sookie gasped. Her eyes fluttered. She went over to a stool, and sat down, her legs unable to support her anymore.

"…_York, but it's all over with now. Most of it anyhow. We still need to do…funeral arrangements. Just thought you should know. You loved Rory too. Yea, ok, well—bye."_

Jackson came in with his wrestling pajamas, pulling the sleep out of his eyes. When his hands stopped blocking his view he saw his wife crying quietly at the kitchen table.

"Sookie, honey, what's the matter?"

Sookie looked up blubbering, "Rory passed away." She broke his gaze, crying again.

"Oh, Sookie. Oh." He came up to her and held her head stroking her hair. She put her face to his belly, and tried to hide from reality. Jackson, forgetting to be the strong man, wept also.

My eyes in Heaven watered. Why do they miss me so?

* * *

Jackson had run over to the market on an errand. They had run out of sugar; Sookie was baking for my mother and herself. He was flustered and out of breath as he searched through the isles looking for the product. He had forgotten where it was, even if he had been inside the very store too many times to count.

"Jackson!"

Jackson yelped. "Jesus!" He turned around to face plaid and pastel. "Oh, it's only you Taylor."

Taylor frowned, "I have a question to ask you, sir, about the last carton of strawberries you delivered."

"I don't have time, _sir_, to talk," Jackson muttered, mirroring Taylor's frown.

"Of course you have time! What would a man like you be doing on a Friday morning?" he asked rather rudely.

"Caring for my grief stricken wife goddamnit! Would it hurt you to show a little respect!" shouted Jackson. His blood boiled with mysterious rage.

Taylor was miffed. "And why is Sookie in this condition?" He looked up and down Jackson as if spotting an ugly stain. "Why is Sookie always in a 'condition'?"

"You, Taylor, are the most despicable man I have ever met. Poor Rory is dead and you call my Sookie being hurt a 'condition'? What are you going to call Lorelai? A disease?" blurted out Jackson.

"Rory's dead?" asked Taylor his eyes wide. Jackson groaned and covered his eyes with his hand.

"Can I just have some sugar?"

"_Our _Rory is…dead?"

"Yes, Taylor," sigh, "she passed away. That's why Luke and Lorelai are in New York. Can you please, for once, keep this to yourself?"

Taylor had found the lint on his shirt strangely interesting. His eyes held a preoccupied look in them, and they were a bit lost. "Why of course. This is one family matter that I…I think I shall stay out of. Excuse me Jackson, I think I forgot…something." He turned and headed to the back.

I followed him and saw him lock himself in his office. He bustled about, looking in drawers and filing cabinets, till finally he came up with a picture. It was me in my fairy costume when I was ten. I was hugging Taylor, because as I remember it, I had broken my wand, but he had come to the rescue with a second, identical wand from his store. I had been so happy I'd given him a hug. He had been so surprised.

"She was a lovely girl," he whispered to no one.

When I went back out to the store, I saw that Jackson had already fled the perimeter. I walked along the aisles, not really there, not really anywhere. I spotted Miss Patty was reading the same soup can label over and over again and knew she had overheard.

Babette came behind her, "Hey Patty, baby, Dancing With the Stars is on the nickelodeon tonight. Ya up to it? Morey promised me he won't say nuthin' if we rate the men's asses. He knows I love him."

"Of course, darling, who doesn't love diamonds?"

"Patty?"

Miss Patty was swooning, "Remember Babette, darling, her caterpillar. She was so adorable. A real picture."

Babette looked closer at her face, "Are you ok? Ya want me to get Taylor out here?"

"No sweetheart. I don't think he really wants to come out right now."

"Why not?"

"He'll never say it, but he really cherished her. He really did."

"Who?"

"Why, Rory, darling!"

"He cherished her?"

Miss Patty started to walk past a confused Babette. "The poor, poor girl. We all loved her so much."

"Why are you…" Babette's eyes misted with understanding. "Oh! How?"

"I better be going now." Miss Patty left without another word.

Babette followed her out, and walked back to her own house, before she bawled. Morey told her it was uncool to be so emotional, but when she told him the news he went over to his piano and banged the keys so hard I thought his fingers would break.

Miss Patty ran into Sy, whom she murmured the events to in the same manner she had with Babette.

Sy met up with Bootsy at Gypsy's, and he somberly related all he had heard to him. Gypsy listened in. When they had left she climbed into the car she working on and placed her head on the steering wheel, wishing her brain was like a car that could so easily be fixed. Gypsy was a strong woman. She knew how to handle sadness.

She went back to her Catholic roots and prayed. She asked God to take care of me, and I swear, He smiled.

* * *

Close to the afternoon, everyone in town knew what had happened. Instead of the usual energetic, traditional town Stars Hollow was known as being, it became a ghost town. That's the way it was when Luke and my mom drove in.

She finished her last disgusting cigarette long ago in the lost highway miles. Lost also were the words from the same smoky mouth. Blue, blue, blue. Dearest bluebird was my prayer. They stepped out in front of the diner, and looked around wondering to themselves where everyone was. It was okay though. Who actually wants to chat when your insides were splintering and your heart was punctured.

"Take me home, Luke," she whispered. "Take me home before they begin to stare. They know by now. We both can bet on that."

"Ok," Luke said. He took her home.

Tomorrow, after all, was another day. Tomorrow, they would face the town. Tomorrow, he would apologize. Tomorrow, Lorelai would love him again. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow—he was making promises again.

* * *

More soon. Reactions from everyone outside of Stars Hollow and another look into Susie's/Rory's heaven.


	3. Chapter 3

**Snow Angels**

**Author **GwenStacy (in another life—rainingyesterday)

**Disclaimer** Nothing on Gilmore Girls and nothing on The Lovely Bones.

**Rating **PG-13 (_language, sexual situations_)

**Summary **We all have regrets…I want to erase mine…We all want to do that too. Rory. Lorelai. Luke. Everyone. Loosely based on 'The Lovely Bones'.

**Playlist **Naked as We Came – Iron and Wine (see my profile for links so you can listen while you read)

**Notes **More reactions. Including someone we've only met slightly. Sorry for the wait.

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Chapter Three

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Luke's head lolled forward on his chest, the blue glow of the TV washing him out. He snored loudly, and in consequence, did not hear my mother leave the house. She creaked open the back door and slid into the porch. There she pulled out her new pack. She stared at it for a while. Still, she hated the smell of cigarettes, but something about the mesmerizing pattern of smoking, inhale-exhale-inhaleexhaleinhale, a detrimental yoga of the lungs, made her rebel against the inner instincts. My mother lit up.

I lazily watched her, my eyes drooping. I had been reading so long in the library, and all I wanted was to sleep, but I couldn't because there is no sleep in Heaven. Sleep is an Earth thing.

Instead of a slumber, I go into a comatose like state of mind where I drift. I feel like I'm in San Francisco in the 60s. Everything is sweet. Exactly. It is when the bitter deliciousness of the coffee grind smell fades away, and an over flowing sweetness fills the air. When I wake up I am sometimes in a field of flowers. Different types; sunflowers, daisies, lilies, tulips, marigolds, daffodils, buttercups, and gradually I am Alice forgetting about Mr. Rabbit.

I fall into this sea of tranquility usually when I read. The words are a simple, un-yielded murmur of ink and familiarity that calm me.

I leaned forward, curious, as I watched her reach into the same purse that released the cigarettes; the bag choked out a phone. My mother dialed a familiar number, and he answered it only after it rang three times.

"Lorelai?"

"Hey Chris."

My father blearily glanced at the clock, and tried to wish himself back to sleep. "What did I do to deserve this call?"

"She's gone Chris."

"Yes, she is. She's independent in New York. I know. I want to sleep now."

"Yea," my mother inhaled sharply fighting back tears, "she's in New York. She's going to be shipped to Hartford in a week. It will be soon. Can we expect you there?"

"Where?"

"The funeral."

--

What makes a father?

Really.

I used to ask myself that when he missed a birthday. Every candle was a symbol of each empty promise he would tell me. _I'll be there for you next year. _

My father woke up the next day after getting stilted details from my mom. He shook his head—as if to rid of bad, erroneous dream that seemed all too real—and took out his laptop from the bedside table drawer. He refused wholeheartedly to believe in my death. Instead, he thought, he'd finish the PowerPoint for work. They were always so hard on him at the office. He should get a vacation. It's not like he needs a job. He's loaded. Probably he should visit Lorelai and Rory in Stars Hollow. He'd have to see Luke, but he also had to stay in touch with his 'family'. You never knew when you may loose them in a freak accident, or to a sneaky disease, or…a random mugging in which an unnamed relative was senselessly shot down and bled to death on the cold hard ground.

Of course he didn't know anyone who died like that.

He opened his internet browser planning to check his mail. The loading bar slowly slipped into its slot, and the New York Times web page popped up. He scanned through it quickly, hesitating over a small blurb. Convinced his eyes deceived him, my father clicked for the whole story:

_Former Girlfriend of Huntzburger Heir Dies in Mugging_

_(New York, NY)- Lorelai Gilmore, former girlfriend of Logan Huntzburger, son of newspaper mogul Mitchum Huntzburger, was pronounced dead at the scene by cause of two fatal gun shot wounds three days ago on the New York City streets. _

Gilmore was walking to her home late in the evening of September 23, when an unknown person or persons confronted her. The events that occurred are indefinite, but police do know that the woman's purse and money was stripped of the body save the office ID tag that identified the victim.

"_All that we know about the crime has come from the limited evidence in front of us," says Officer Guerrero, "and what the neighbor's heard. It's not a lot to go on to find our suspect."_

_The position of the body leads forensics to believe that Gilmore was running away from the thief when she was shot. The first bullet pierced her left lung, and the second bullet lodged itself in the lower neck. The wounds were fatal. The shooter was gone by the time local grocery and meat market owner, Valencio Portocelle, called paramedics. _

"_I heard gunshots, and I ran out of my store. I saw the girl on the ground and I immediately ran back inside to call the police," says Portocelle. _

_Blood had run down… _

He couldn't read anymore. The article went on to describe the ending of the scene, my family, and lastly my relationship with the Huntzburgers. It was nothing special. I probably wouldn't have made even a blurb in the front page if I hadn't had some connection to a wealthy, well-known family. If I hadn't made that blurb, my father would have probably forgotten the whole nighttime delivery of mal news.

He's good at that. Forgetting. I would blow out each candle, sometimes like on my seventh birthday one by one, and wish that I would get into Harvard and my dad would come live with us. Child wishes.

My father got off the internet and finished his PowerPoint. It was a good presentation.

--

California is in the west. The sun sets there in a dazzling array of gaudy golden strands that flicker off the coastal waters. The cities, the ones you know without a map, soak up the last rays before the sea swallows them whole. He loved to watch the sunset. From his sky rise condo close to the Pacific Ocean, Logan would sit in a chair with his cell phone on silent, suit buttons open, patent leather shoes slipped off; just to watch the sunset.

I knew this because on some occasions, he would call me and tell me exactly what was happening out in the water. I would listen to him happily, and relieved that he didn't think me abhorrent after saying to no to his proposal. In fact, he still whispered 'I love you' every time the burning sphere was no more on his side of the U.S.A. With nothing to say back except a known truth that would most likely hurt us both (I love you too), I would always hang up first, not knowing he listened to the dial tone minutes after the fact, and I'd fall asleep troubled thinking of the things California represented to me.

To Logan, California was all new, and glossy, and Hollywood--like all the other pretty, ambitious hicks being dropped of by the busload expected it to be, only they found out the true dirty reflection of L.A. after their casting photos were lost in a briefcase of a money whore agent. Even if he was in Northern California, the mind set of freedom and gain infected his brain like spore.

"You're doing good, Logan," congratulated Mr. Hunt, his stout boss. "You're doing much better that I thought you'd be doing."

"Thank you. My father will be happy to hear that."

Mr. Hunt winked, "I'm on it kid. One good message from me, and you'll be on the old man's good side. Oh, speaking of messages, I think Mary was saying you have urgent one. You might want to check up on that."

"I suppose I shall," Logan eased, "It's always good to talk to you Hunt."

"Mr. Hunt, Logan. I earned it kid. It's Mr. Hunt."

With those parting lines, Mr. Hunt left him to his business. Logan swiveled around and did a sauntering, intimidating walk that he saved for the office. The place was a stage for him to flourish on, and he did well with every winking smile, and congratulations, and angry outburst. He made everyone believe he belonged there.

"Hello Mary," Logan said seductively as he slid into cubicle.

The little brunette answered, "Mr. Huntzburger."

"The Boss Man tells me I have an urgent message."

"That you do. I'll run it to your office, because unlike you, I actually have work to do."

Logan sat up, pretending to be offended, "Well thanks Mary. Why don't you take the day off tomorrow since you work so unbelievably hard?"

She smiled, as he headed to his office and I heard her thoughts on how annoyingly great he was. If I wasn't in Heaven I suspect jealousy would have come over me like a green dress.

But I forgot all about Mary when I saw Logan slumped on his chair, pale, and looking out his office window, a decent view. I knew he had heard by the way tears formed at the edges of his eyes, and I watched his chest rise and fall in a heaving way through the fiberglass window. His body fell forward, and his blonde head fell between his knees and Logan's body heaved once more. He was crying fully, and I was outside his door, wanting to, for the life of me, (oh, the ironies) to go in. I started to beat at the glass.

_I'm okay!_

_Don't cry, I love you, don't cry._

_Stop it, stop it._

_Look at me!_

He couldn't see me though, and he fell apart in that office. Days later, when the windows were cleaned, they would be puzzled by the erratic handprints. All over the glass, my palms made their mark, and they couldn't be erased.

--

Kwan and Steve cried. That's all they've been doing since Hep Alien had started this new tour route that went into an impressive six states and thirty-five venues. The kids were giving Lane a migraine that made her sick. She had taken eight pills in the last two hours and so far the effects promised on the label had not yet shown their worth.

"Think tortured artist," she told herself as she paced in front of her drum kit before a show. Lane then braced herself for the bawling children that were the fruit of her loins, "Stevie! Kwansiepumpkin? What's wrong boys?"

They sat on a spare amp, old enough to explore, but young enough they always had to know their mother was near by. "Kwan and…me Kwan found bug, mama!"

"Ew," she muttered looked at what Kwan held in his hand. "Put that down. Then find Daddy or Mama Kim, so they can wash your hands ok. They're behind that curtain. Mommy has to practice her drums okay?"

The boys nodded at ran off. There hadn't even been any tears on their faces. Lane pulled at her hair, frustrated.

"Tortured artist. Van Gogh. Kurt Cobain. James Dean. Whitney Houston married." She sat down and picked up the sticks. "Tortured artists had headaches all the time."

Lifting a stick an inch above the surface of the crash cymbal she lowered it down lightly. It gave a dull metal sound, and she winced as it caused her temples to throb. I laughed for the first time that day. Lane took out some earplugs from her pocket, stuck them in, took out another pill, swallowed that dry, and then placed a beat with the bass drum.

Just as she was about to ease in the snare and the high-hat, Mama Kim came in with a cell phone. She shouted thunderously, "Here Lane. For you. It is Luke. He say it is important. Also, why does Steve eat bugs?"

Ignoring the question, Lane thanked her for the phone, "Hello?"

"…"

"What?"

"…"

"Oh, hold on. My earplugs."

"I said that I have bad news."

Oh no. Luke was going to tell Lane. I was having such an easy time just watching her. "Can we talk about it later? I have a show in a few hours, and I can't even make noise!"

"Okay. I'll call you--"

"Actually," curiosity got a hold of her, "just tell me it now while I'm already feeling down. Go ahead; kick me."

"Lane, I'll tell…okay…three days ago, Lane, Rory was walking down…"

Her eyes misted as Luke's voice traveled miles by some kind of waves--she didn't remember. She didn't remember much actually. Her name was?

_Lane,_ I told her, _your name is Lane._

But like every other time I tried to send truth from Heaven it was lost in static.

She hung up the phone without a goodbye, and walked over to her drums. Not replacing the plugs, Lane pounded on the set with all her might, the cymbals quaking and the drum heads shivering, letting out the loud _Bomp-bomp-crash-bomp—crash—crash—crash—bomp_. The little Korean women's head screamed in agony at loud noise.

But at least it drowned me out.

--

Everyone remembers his or her first kiss. Their first boyfriend or girlfriend. Their first love…

His hair was brown and floppy and soft. His eyes were gentle, and lips always grinning. It was cute the way his ears stuck out a bit, and how he had to stoop just to look at me. He was my first kiss; shoplifting came easily after that. Whenever I saw him, butterflies clichéd their way into my stomach and my cheeks felt on fire. Everyone loved him. I ended up loving him. It was happiness just to be with him.

My Dean.

He leaned over, sweating, even in the windy Chicago autumn day. His arms flexed involuntarily as he lifted a long piece of lumber, the contours of his muscle shimmering in the hazy sunlight. I watched him while he worked.

I hoped no one would reach him. They say ignorance is bliss, and in these cases of the people I care about being hurt by the knowledge of what happened to me, I believe that saying more than ever.

Dean walked over to his truck. It was his lunch break, and he sat down on his truck bed. He took out his lunch; a sandwich and a mildly warm beer that had sat in a cooler whose ice had now turned into water. Eating quietly and taking large sips, he never even acknowledged any of the other workers. Just eat and drink, eat and drink. I had no idea whether to leave him or not. He looked…not miserable. Just kind of…solemn.

He stared out to city skyline, not paying any attention. His mind traveled a different route and I was afraid what where it would lead. Past? Future? I knew by his uncut beard and chapped lips—never present.

The shrill ringing of his cell phone, clipped to side of his Wranglers, shook him back to his hard labor of living and building. Dean flipped it open roughly and held to his ear, simultaneously grunted, "Hi."

"Dean, sweetheart, it's your mother."

"I know."

His mother blushed at the other end at his hard tone, "Caller ID. Sorry. Forgot."

"It's fine."

Neither spoke for a moment.

"Clara says hello!"

"Tell her," Dean paused for the right words, "I miss her."

"She'll be glad to hear that."

"Sure."

"Dean," Mrs. Forrester stuttered, "this is about Rory Gilmore."

"I'm hanging up," he growled.

"No! Wait! You need to hear this!"

"Do I?"

"She passed away Dean. I thought you should know. Rory Gilmore is…gone"

"Liar."

He hung up.

He took another swig of beer as his body seethed with anger that was still left over from adolescence, a sign he never truly grew up, and Dean went back to work.

--

Paris called the New York police station from Boston. Her clothes had not been changed, it was eleven forty-two at night, and Doyle had left the apartment in a plan to escape the oven temperatures that the thermometer could not read, because it was just Paris seething.

"You're telling me that none of your CSI wannabes can figure out who the hell killed my friend! I bet that freaking Austin Powers could do a better job on this case!"

"Ma'm--"

"Don't ma'm me! My name is Paris Gellar! Do you understand or do I have to translate that into moron?"

"I understand m—Miss Gellar, but we have little evidence to lead us to perpetrator. The bullets and shells are already in the lab as we speak, but it might take some time to identify the type of the gun used in the homicide and then identify the owner of the gun.

Eyewitness reports are sketchy. We live in New York, Miss, every low-life on the street commits crimes and people want to be part of the story. I have some lady coming up to me tellin' me her cat saw the guy. Supposedly the cat says he was a transvestite."

"We follow the cat's lead! I had a cat once! He seemed a hell of lot smarter than some people! Look, Officer Whatever, I just want him found. Okay? I'll go after the bastard myself if I have to. He'll wish Charlie Manson was the one that found him instead of me."

"I believe you Miss Gellar. I do, but please don't be puttin' yourself in danger or gettin' into police business. We'll find the man who killed your friend. Promise you."

Beep.

"Yea right," Paris muttered and planned her trip to New York.

--

I opened my eyes to a field flowers.

Sunflowers extended their heads to a pinkish purple sunset that drooped its head behind a hill. I had been in this valley before. My body felt weightless and yet grounded at the same time, and I felt my lips involuntarily curve into tiny smile. The kind when you first wake up after a wonderful dream, and the remnants of it are still clinging to your brain, giving off a wonderful taste to your nervous system. Except, instead of waking up from my dream, it was like I had woken in it.

A shadow, the shape of man sitting next to motorcycle caught my eye atop the hill and he seemed so high up. Like he was touching the lavender heavens.

Oh wait—I am in the Heavens.

I willed myself up, clawing at the dirt and modestly trying to keep my sundress down, until finally I was making my way up the hillside. The flowers teased and tickled my knees, but I kept quite so I would not disturb the mysterious dead man.

He was smoking a cigarette, and I crinkled my noise even if there was no odor. His profile seemed familiar, but in the waning, colored light I could not be sure. His jacket was black leather, myself barely noticing the chilly breeze and unwillingly shivered. Underneath the jacket, I had to suppress a giggle, because for such a 'tuff' looking guy with a motorcycle, he wore a bright pink button down shirt.

He must have heard my muffled laugh, because he coolly looked up at me, and I almost choked.

"James Dean…" I stammered.

He grinned, took out a pair of thick-rimmed glasses, and put them on. He looked back to me, and asked, "Now, how do you do?"

"I…" I paused to plop myself a foot away from him on the grass, "I'm Rory, well, Lorelai Gilmore, and I'm doing really good. I mean, I may have had a heart attack actually seeing you, and all, but that's kind of stupid because we're dead, so I really couldn't have had a heart attack. You can call me Rory," I finished blushing.

"Rory," James Dean tried out.

My face turned redder than the sunset, "Yea. My mom and I used have movie nights where we'd watch all three of your movie, but we'd never make it through 'Giant'."

"I never made it through 'Giant' either."

"Oh…yea."

We both stared at the sky. I guess he wasn't the most talkative guy.

"Ars longa, vita brevis," he murmured.

I looked over to him, and had the urge to fix his hair blowing in the wind, but I resisted. "Latin?"

"Yes. It means, 'Art is long, Life is short'. I'm glad you saw my films."

"Not only that, but right after I found out 'East of Eden' and 'Giant' were books, I begged my mother for copies. I was like ten, and both those books combined was over a thousand pages," I stated proudly.

James Dean winked at me, "So your one of those bas bleu kind of girls?"

"Oh, so now you know French," I laughed.

His face sobered and I wondered what I had said wrong. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his silly pink shirt. Hesitating, he said, "I loved a French girl."

"Oh."

"She was," his face grew dreamy and I couldn't help but fall under his spell, "beautiful. Really, really beautiful. Like a French rose."

"What was her name?" I inquired.

He ignored me, "We were in love, but her mother didn't like me all to much. We ended our relationship, but I still loved her. I went her wedding," he said. The sunset had ended its show and now it was the stars turn to glitter like diamonds. He laid down and I followed suit. His voice was low and I strained to hear it, "I didn't go inside, but I stood outside with my bike and I waited for her. I waited for her to come on out, and see me, and love me, and realize she made a mistake.

She was beautiful when she walked out of there; her hair and that dress! Gee, I'd never seen anything so perfect. Then I saw him. I hated him. I wanted to shove his head into wall. I decided to leave before I did something really bad, but I saw her look at me. I saw her smile go away, and I knew she still loved me too."

I gave him a flower, "That's romantic."

"N'est-ce pas?"

"What happened to her?"

He plucked a few of the flower petals off, and looked me in the eyes, "She committed suicide some time later. I'm looking for her. I don't know where in Heaven she is, but I'm going to find her."

Taking his hand, I turned up to sky, "Good luck."

So there James Dean and I lay on top of the hill of the valley of flowers, holding hands and saying nothing else. Friends so quick that only Heaven could shape. Just dreaming 'a la belle etoile'.

--

He looked up to sky, and saw smog. He remembered how when he was young his mother used to tell him the airplanes passing over the city were shooting stars. He told Luke that one time, and he said he guessed that's why none of his wishes ever came true.

Jess sighed, and kept on walking to his apartment. It was the same way he traveled everyday, the same route he walked when we had our impromptu meeting between life and death.

He still thought about it. Wondering. Worried. Wistful.

He got out of the frosty night air. Climbing the steps, instead of taking the elevator, left him with little breath, and he cursed his addiction to cigarettes. He hated being out of shape. You have to be healthy to survive is the way he saw it. You can't duck and throw punch quickly when your lungs are black and cancerous.

Once in the room, Jess slipped off his coat and scarf, throwing it on the beat up sofa that he couldn't bring himself to toss when he moved from above the store. Scuffling to his kitchen, Jess planned to make himself a late night PB&J, crunchy of course, however he was stopped by the pulsating object in his pocket.

"Hello?"

"It's Luke."

Jess opened his cabinets trying to remember where he last placed the ever-elusive peanut butter jar. I was happy to notice that there was something that brightened up in him when he heard it was Luke. "Hey, hey. How's it going Uncle Luke? Did you call me at…two thirty in the morning to tell me Lorelai's finally been committed?"

There was no chuckle in reply as the usual conversations went. Luke spoke softly. "Jess, I'm going to tell you something you are not going to want to hear, and I need you to stay on the phone with me. Ok? Just, don't hang up after I say what I'm going to say."

"Sure," Jess said dragging out the word, and pausing what he was doing.

"Rory," I cringed. How many times will I torture myself with watching them? "was living in New York as you know. And she was walking home from work when someone jumped out and mugged her."

Jess's pulse quickened, "Is she alright? God! What the hell is she thinking? New York is way to Goodfellas for her!"

"Listen to me, Jess, don't get too upset."

"Too upset! The girl has lived in Stars Hollow her whole life for god sakes! With actual traffic laws, and neighborhood watches! I think--"

"The mugger shot her, Jess!" Luke shouted in the phone.

The pulse that had quickened before had now practically died. "Huh?"

"She's dead."

"She was murdered." He spoke it with such a heavy coldness, as if lead licked ever letter. My skin crawled. It was the first time I had heard it like that.

--

Inside a lavishly decorated room lay my grandmother. Her eyes were closed, and breathing even. If her nose wasn't runny, and mascara tracks tracing her cheeks, and if her clothing was not rumpled, you may have thought she was just taking a nap.

But as her husband sat in study with a friend named vodka, gazing at my portrait with loving memories, Grandma was not asleep, but instead mourning.

I couldn't take any more of this.

--

**Notes Two **Next chapter will be uber short. Just to let ya'll know.


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